


Wrong

by PastaBucket



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Body Horror, Child Abuse, Child Death, Child Neglect, Gen, Insanity, Psychological Horror, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Schizoid Narrator, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-10 02:14:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastaBucket/pseuds/PastaBucket
Summary: I don't see what you see.(Also Alice In Chains.)





	1. The Filth

**Author's Note:**

> Fitting reading music from Alice In Chains, will be provided for each/some chapters.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never Fade - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPyUlIXLQ94

There is something wrong with me.

As I entered the cabin, I found her waiting there for me, as if she never left - as if she never even got dressed. The gaping hole between her legs - as wide as a birth would stretch it. The oozing with strands thick gooey pus slowly dripping down toward the floor. The sick grey color of her oily skin that looked like a condom stretched over offal. There was no facial features, because my mind kept blocking them out, but it was her alright.

"What are you?", I asked the mute flesh puppet, as it swayed before me.

_I am an angel._

* * *

I jerked awake. No screams this time. With the passing years, I had learned to suppress them.

It wasn't the bad place, but it was bad enough.

Finally I swung my feet from the bed, and got dressed.

Looking out the barred windows, it was quiet. No stirring shapes in the dimness.

Somewhere out there, people were going about their daily business. There was nothing wrong with them, and that's why I never saw them.

* * *

I'm not like them. Not really. I keep telling myself this - that I'm different, but not _that_ different - that I'll never be like them.

When you strip away all meaning, only shapes remain. Jagged, rusty shapes that you have to be different in order to see.

They see the world like this too, but they don't see the normal world - at least they don't have any memories of it.

...and in that sense, I guess the memories are what makes us human.

I'm not like her. I know what I did, but I don't think I'll ever be like her.

...but then, who am I? They keep telling me that I'm not a person. I just don't understand where the world went. How can the whole world just up and disappear?

She entered me from the back of the head, and I guess it was only a matter of time, before she slowly burrowed her way all the way through, and now I see the world as the angels see it: Crude. Desolate. Forsaken.

...and the more I forget, the more I become like them. That's why it's important to remember - remember how things were before, back when things were... ...human.

* * *

...but it's not just me here. I'm not the only survivor. More and more of us are waking up every day, to a harsher reality, stripped of ideals, once we figure out how to tear ourselves from the death screen. You're looking at it right now - you know what I'm talking about. When was the last time you went outside, to see what has become of civilization? The streets are all abandoned now.

* * *

We put our trust in the government. We put our trust into other people, because we wanted to be led rather than take responsibility for our lives.

...and so the government built offices and institutions for us, and promised to take care of us.

...and it built little storages to store the bad things in, far away, out of sight, to shelter us.

...and with time, as we forgot them, these things corroded - eroded - until a decision was made, somewhere, by someone, that the doors to Heaven be opened wide.

They came into our world hungry for murder. Their half-minds don't understand us, and that makes us weak.

Nowadays, if you turn on the telly, there is just a voice repeating the same instructions over and over again:

"Kill them. Kill them. Kill them."

...and so that's why I got rid of my TV. At least with the death screen, there is some wiggle room. There is hope.

* * *

I'm planning my escape. One of these days, I'm going to get out of here. I don't know where, but anywhere but the death screen.

The angel vision is helping me somewhat, because angels are immune to the death screen. I get the feeling it's built to trap us, as preserved food for them.

There is something wrong with me.


	2. The Victim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red Giant - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1r35DBVWR_Q

Concrete walls, and barely any light, but linoleum floor, betraying a remnant of a location from the human world.

I'm here again. I know this place well. The TV led me here.

My ears are ringing with the clang of metal and the choir of the damned, but through it all, I still remember its words:

"Follow the way. Silence the screams.", I mumble its commands.

There is a pipe in my hands. I already know that she's here. I know what I'm expected to do here, and this time I've narrowed the reasons down to just a few.

As I turn the corner, it twists around to greet me. No facial features or hair. Just a shuddering human shape of flesh given life. Outside the barred windows, the flames from a furnace is burning.

I open my mouth to speak, but the deafening shriek it lets out would drown any words I would attempt to say.

Like The Filth was the first, she is the second sefirah in this twisted tree: The Victim.

Unlike a genuine victim who would take responsibility if given a chance, she provokes and maintains the conflict under a false veil of innocence, so that she can lure trusting men to "save" her.

My mind goes to the pipe in my hand. I am meant to make her my pinata, and that's how I lose this sick game of martyrdom pretense. That's how I lose my humanity.

I watch her as we stand there, frozen in deadlock.


	3. The Charade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voices - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PF_sGFjQYow

I don't live in your world, but can you really honestly tell me that you live in yours? Do you live in the streets outside your house? If you do, then I'm truly sorry. However, if we stop pretending to be homeless, you live - just as I do - in a flat somewhere, spending your days isolated and online, as a persona, in a hugbox of your own choosing, where everything makes a comfortable sense.

...and it's like that for everybody: Once we disconnect from the screen, we take our persona with us when we go offline, out into a world that may not cater to us as much, but that still reflects us in the sense that it's making, or rather "that we're making of it". Perhaps we learn to interact with other people - other projections of avatars - but what we will never find, is that true common ground, that is the reality around us. All we can agree on, is the neon signs erected for us, to unify us into yet another charade of belonging.

...but it's when this facade peels away, that you find the true reality lurking behind it all, that we've been running from all this time.

You are not your avatar. Underneath your makeup, your clothes and your skin, you are something so much more disgusting, no different from rats, or the diseases they spread in turn.

...and maybe you don't want to remind yourself of that. Maybe it makes you sick. Maybe you're afraid. ...and that's understandable. I didn't want to know either. I just didn't have a choice.


	4. The Damned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acid Bubble - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=adojS5sQNJw

It's when the walls flow slippery with that familiar grime, and collects in pools on the floor, that I hear the cries of babies. The loud rattle from the pipe hitting the floor echoes through the halls as I stagger forward, entering their incubation ward.

Rusty cribs line the walls before me, with no nurses in sight, and from them the torn, bereft cries of the damned emenate, in an unending song of suffering - cries for mothers who doesn't care, cries for fathers who cannot find them, cries from their daipers being full, cries of pain from the cockroaches biting into their flesh.

The plastic tubes that have been extended into each crib, providing them with nutrition, is a small mercy that the surviving ones learn to adapt to. As I inspect the more silent ones, more horrifying sights greet me: A dislocated jaw. Tetanus in hands, spreading down their arms. Torn off flesh or entire bitten off limbs. Depending on their parents, these children are both clean and filthy alike - both human and angelic - all changelings.

"Take One", the sign offers.

This place will never stop haunting my memories. I remember clearly my own cries of survival.


	5. The Chrysalis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The One You Know - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=352RBWh6ViU

I look into the mirror as my fingers feel over the rough, flaky surface between my nose and my eye. Trying to dispose of the dead-white tissue, my scrapings only succeed in producing more of them, as the skin reddens. Maybe I should stop - just leave it as it is. ...but somewhere there is a curiousity growing within me, of finding out just how much of it is just layers of dead skin that isn't really me.

As the minutes pass, flakes fall into the sink like snow, as my fingers methodically dig through it all: Opinions. Beliefs. Morals. Worth.

...until the last piece of mask peels away, and I begin exposing a thin membrane, soft and living, under which something slithers and writhes, just like she does.

Somewhere I know that I am dangerous - that I am an impostor. ...but how can I be, when the shell feels so real?

As I peel and tear at the opening, it widens to expose more what is so impossibly me.

I honestly don't know where I end and she begins, and a part of me even stops caring at times.

I've done things. I try to cover them up in excuses, but they just dress them up instead.

I guess the time has finally come, for the parasite to shed its skin.


	6. Self-diagnose

Words.

Words words derealization words words words.

It's hard to figure myself out when I can't even read about my condition, my eyes darting all over the place on pages, without really stringing words together into something coherent.

I guess there must be meaning in words, but I can't pay attention to them. They feel meaningless.

I pay attention to shapes and spaces. Touch is my main sense. I don't want to remember, and so I block things out.

...but the gist of it is this: I did bad things. They made me do bad things. I don't want to do bad things, but I did bad things, and I'll definitely-definitely do bad things again, because there's something wrong with me. They removed the part where I can stop myself. I know that it's bad, but I just can't care. I want to care, but I can't. The feeling just disappears and isn't there anymore.

...and some people tell me that it's okay, but it's not okay. I don't want to do what I'm doing, but I don't really know how else to do things because I've never learned, and nobody will let me, and at this point I don't think that I can develop something different inside. I don't even think that good things are useful anymore. I've stopped believing in the religious crap they teach you at schools, because they refuse to teach you survival skills in a classroom. Instead they feed you all this crap about how fear isn't respect, and how you're safe if you just trust in the government.

They try so desperately to keep us in the dark about what's right in front of our eyes: Just reach out and touch a wall. Feel how its surface feels. Underneath the color of its wall paper, you feel the wall pushing back. That's Heaven. They just cover it up. They hide it from sight, but they can't fool me.

I need to get out of here, but I don't know where to go. The noradrenalin just makes me feel like I need to flee, but at the same time I'm too mentally exhausted to even more, and sometimes even breathe.

Don't you ever get that feeling?


	7. Treatment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__biilMpnmw

As I enter the hall, the door is locked behind me. The only way is forward now, as a rat navigated through a sterile landscape cordoned by white fibreglass wallpaper. As I open a side door, a psychiatrist charges me, but with my angelic strength, I plunge my knife into his belly, and manage to drag it up into his heart before he could crush my head in. I push his naked, twitching body off me.

Just as everywhere else, Heaven has seeped into this place too. The final bastion of sanity has fallen, and with that there is no hope of "treatment", if you could even call it such a thing.

Via his computer, I access my journal. Just as I thought, nothing but slander and plans for how to ruin my life. Other journals are filled with sexual fanfics about the patients, shared between the staff.

As I enter behind the reception area, I surprise a nurse. I catch her before she can get away, and put my knife to her throat. She promises to behave, and puts on her most disarming charm. Her skin sliding about in my grip, tells me she's lying, but that's okay. The knife will keep her honest as I drag her toward the exit door of this pretentious whore house.

It is amazing how little religious texts protected us from Heaven. The Bible, the "Law", the DSM - books so very thick with considerate warding passages against corruption, and yet it all falls apart like a farse, before the true order of things, to become nothing but big toys for the angels to play with.

Once outside, I cut open the nurse's throat and keep her head pinned to the ground with my foot, until she bleeds out. I'm sick of all this mercy crap that my host used to yap on about. My localized treatment for the infestation is 100% effective.


End file.
